Archive of Our Own ^beta

Not for the first time, Harry Osborn curses his rotten luck.

He can hear your protests already. Harry Osborn, son of Norman Osborn, heir to his multi-billion dollar worth company, and social media influencer extraordinaire, has bad luck? Sure. And he can't blame you for thinking that, but maybe, just maybe, he also has a flair for the dramatics, which is currently causing him to consider running the red light before him.

You might be wondering why. Well, the thing is: half an hour ago, he fist-bumped Nico Minoru goodbye, feeling light as a feather, before deciding to call Peter Parker and boast of his success with befriending her. Only the other boy didn't answer, and though he would never admit it aloud, not wanting to seem bothersome, Harry tried to let it go. 

He really tried.

Except then, he got to scrolling. And he came across multiple articles with reports of a warehouse disturbance in a part of the city his father always told him to avoid. He vaguely recalls reading about a long turf war finally reaching a breaking point, but all he could register after that was the realization of what this meant, in combination with the fact that Peter wasn't answering his phone.

He was involved.

Harry knows it shouldn't worry him as much as it does. Peter can handle himself — he is Spider-Man, after all, and Harry has seen him in action before. He would be fine. 

So why is Harry rushing back to Oscorp Tower, frantic but hopeful to find Peter there, where he always went after a mission for a debriefing with Harry’s father? Peter would be fine, so why?

Because his gut told him otherwise. It sank and weighed his foot to the accelerator, even now. Some part of him was worried regardless, because Peter has rapidly become such a big part of his life. He saved it, then barged in like he belonged, uncertain of himself the whole time, yes — except somehow, that just made him cuter.

Everything that seemed to embarrass him about himself (and that was a lot of things), Harry found himself falling in love with.

He refuses to dwell on it for any extended amount of time. Harry is only palatable to so many people, if that, because he presents himself in a very specific way. One that may be a little fabricated, but one that is comfortable, he has been doing it for so long. He knows himself, and that felt like enough for a while. Even then, Nico saw past his facade. But there are already a large number of variables at play — he can't add another, not without blurring the lines between himself and what he presents himself as.

He is scared to.

A blaring honk from behind snaps him out of his reverie. The light turned green without him noticing. It is just as well — you should be all caught up.

He drives as fast as he can without breaking the speed limit, his focus narrowed to a point. The glint of Oscorp Tower soon comes into view, and the feeling in his stomach sours further as he watches it approach through the windshield.

The parking lot is less empty than you would expect this late at night, but his father's car is there as always. He parks and slams his door shut harder than necessary, locking it as he strides towards the entrance like a man on a mission.

The receptionist is missing from her chair behind the desk. In fact, the whole Tower is silent save for the clack of Harry’s loafers against the tile floor. It sets his nerves on edge. He makes his way to the elevator, determined on finding the owners of those cars in the lot.

And Peter.

He pushes the button to their private floor. The ride is smooth, allowing him a moment to collect himself. He takes a deep breath, in and out. It probably wasn't as bad as he thought, right?

Spoiler alert: it turns out to be worse.

He finds his father in his office, hunched over multiple floating screens and wearing a headset. “Dad? What’s going on?” He tries to ask, but Norman doesn't even look up. The table in the middle of the room is occupied by a holographic map of New York, hundreds of tiny buildings and little roads made out of cyan.

One in particular is pinned with a tag.

He tears his gaze away and moves from the doorway to his father’s desk. Norman seems laser-focused on what he is doing, and once Harry notices the main screen his attention is aimed at, he understands why.

Peter, dangling from a silver and green glider that Harry’s father controls, fills the screen. His entire body is limp, which can be blamed on the honest-to-god hole in his right shoulder, illuminated by the moon behind him. His white Spidey suit is stained red, not unlike the one Harry spied in his notebook at the beginning, but his father rejected without a second thought — except all in the wrong context. Red with blood. 

He remembers Peter dejectedly tucking the designs into his backpack, and despite himself, asking him to see them later, when it was just the two of them.

Peter smiled at him then, small but nearly blinding, and nodded.

The memory, compared to what is currently before him, makes his chest tighten and his heart beat faster. Peter’s face is now bruised and bloodied, eyes screwed shut and moderately visible through the damage done to his mask. Harry gasps at the sight, and only then does Norman seem to register his son’s presence.

“Harry,” he mutters, glancing up. “Hello. Peter’s found himself in a bit of a situation.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Harry retorts, panicking slightly. “What the hell happened?!”

“Otto’s tech happened.” He speaks as if annoyed. Harry likes to consider himself in the loop, and in fact, he is aware of his father’s disdain for his former lab partner. But that is hardly an explanation. “It doesn't matter. I’ll have the last laugh.”

“Wait, so—”

Norman interrupts him before he can ask any more clarifying questions. “He’s almost here. Don’t worry, I’ve already alerted the finest medics we have on payroll.”

At this, Harry turns incredulous. “But he—”

“And before you ask, yes. They can be trusted. Peter’s identity is safe.”

It dissipates only a small amount of his anxiety. He is still confused, yet simply huffs, left with no choice but to wait impatiently for Peter’s arrival. It doesn't take long at all — Norman had no reason to lie in this regard — for his father to remove the headset, usher Harry back into the elevator, and push the button to the floor of Oscorp’s fairly new, experimental medical wing. He tries to inhale again, but the breath gets caught in his throat. The elevator doors are sliding open before he is ready.

The stark white of the walls and tiles immediately hurt his eyes. He thinks he can feel a headache coming on. The floor is crowded with doctors, none of which he recognizes and finally explaining the copious amount of cars in the parking lot. His father walks with confidence amongst them. Meanwhile, Harry follows in his footsteps, uncertain. They part like the sea for the two of them.

Peter’s room is at the end of the hallway, which simultaneously seems too short and too long a distance. They make it there regardless, opening the door, and Harry blanches at the sight before him.

The glider is turned off in the corner of the room, and the window is slightly ajar. Peter, for lack of a better word, looks broken. The medics have cut through his grimy suit in order to treat his wounds. He still wears his mask, one lens shattered, putting his steadily blackening eye on display. His right arm is all twisted in an unnatural direction. An oxygen mask covers his mouth, and machines beep in the background.

Try as he might, horrified as he is, Harry can't tear his gaze away.

They are stationary in the doorway for no more than a moment, but to Harry, it feels like an eternity. “He’s… just a kid,” one of the doctors voices her thoughts as she releases the oxygen mask with a hiss of air. When they do finally move, Harry remains a few steps behind his father, just out of frame but close enough to continue staring at Peter. 

“BP dropping, prep the crash cart,” another voice chimes in.

Oh, Peter.

At the same moment, he blinks his eyes open slowly. Harry wants to cry in relief. His gaze is bleary and lost, and Harry finally finds it in himself to move forward and try to grab his hand to comfort him, anything — when his father holds him back. Harry stares up at him, feeling almost betrayed, but Norman only furrows his brows and gives him a stern look.

“Wait— don’t—” Peter chokes out as a doctor comes by and stabs his forearm with a syringe, taking his blood. Harry watches it be passed to another medic and carefully carried away, a strange sinking in his gut.

“Give him some space, everybody,” Norman says, stepping forward. “What’s his status?”

“Once we get his blood pressure under control, he should be stable enough for us to address his wounds,” the first doctor provides, then launches into an explanation with a lot of big words and medical mumbo jumbo that Harry doesn't understand. All he can focus on is the fact that Peter’s eyelids have drooped back shut, and he is out like a light, expression more peaceful than it was moments before. 

He doesn't know if he should be more relieved or more worried.

“This might get ugly, kid,” a nearby nurse informs him. Her face is weathered but kind. “You should wait outside.”

Harry nods wordlessly and allows himself to be pushed out of the room.

Harry isn't sure how long he waits outside. It feels like dozens of hours, but in reality, can't be more than a few. The tile floor burns itself into his retinas as the bustle settles down. Doctors leave and enter Peter’s room intermittently, and the clock ticks on, taunting him.

Finally, his father steps out of the room, face pulled tight. Harry stands, knees wobbling from sitting for a while. “Is he okay?” His voice is rough from disuse.

Norman gives him a minute nod. “You can see him now,” he says, and places a hand on his shoulder. “He might be a little out of it from the painkillers. Just make sure you get some sleep.”

“I will.”

His father nods again. Then he stalks down the hallway, towards the elevator at the end of it.

Harry wastes no time. He barges in, quite literally, and the remaining doctor inside the room jumps. He recovers quickly, giving him a tight smile and gesturing to the clipboard he holds. “Mr. Osborn,” he addresses Harry, and the title feels strange. “His vitals are looking good. I’ll leave you two.”

“Thank you,” Harry murmurs. The doctor exits the room.

He rushes to the bed. The other boy is awake, but just barely. He is hooked up to an IV dripping saline. 

“Harry? Is that you?” He croaks out. His right arm has been set in a cast, and his bare shoulder is wrapped in bandages. Though he now wears a loose hospital gown, his face is still trapped behind his grimy mask. As Harry sits down in the chair at his bedside, before he knows what he is doing, he lifts his hands and attempts to remove it, desperate to see Peter’s face.

“Wait.” Peter stops his hands with his own, the point of contact between them igniting a fire beneath Harry’s skin. He has sat up slightly, propped against the pillows. “Anyone could…” He trails off.

Harry shakes his head. “We’re alone.” Then— “Please, Pete.”

Peter stares at him for a moment more, before dropping his hands. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

Despite the obvious display of trust, Harry can’t help but mourn the loss. He moves slowly, pulling his mask off fully. He discards it at the end of the bed and cradles Peter’s injured face for a closer look.

In addition to the black eye, there is another bandage on his cheek and forehead. His lips are no longer bleeding, but still red from being split and shiny from a healing balm. Harry only realizes he has been staring at them when they move again.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asks, voice low and breathy, as if it has been knocked out of him.

“Making sure you’re still alive, dummy.” Harry drops his hands now, hoping to put some distance between them. “Thank god, you are. Who did this to you?”

“Mac Gargan.” Peter looks as if he is debating sharing more information, before deciding it will be safe with Harry. “He’s the leader of a gang called the Scorpions. Got his hands on some pretty nasty tech from uh, a guy your dad knows—”

“Otto Octavius,” Harry fills in for him. Here comes the kicker. “Are you gonna go after him? This Scorpion guy, I mean.”

“I have to… right? If not for me, then for the people he could hurt.” Despite this, Peter is frowning, expression miserable.

“Do you want to, though?” Harry hears himself say, and that is when he comes to the conclusion that Peter is scared. Spider-Man, the boy Harry maybe even... loves, is afraid. Just like he was, hours earlier.

Peter shakes his head minutely.

“Oh, Pete…” Harry can't keep himself from surging forward and capturing him in a hug. Peter oofs, and Harry loosens his grip as he remembers the other boy’s injuries. “Sorry. But I promise to make sure this doesn't happen again. I’m your dude at the desk, remember?”

Peter huffs a ghost of a laugh at this. “I remember.” He returns the hug without hesitation, free hand coming to rest in the small of Harry’s back, sending warmth blooming in his stomach. “Thanks, Harry.”

They remain in that embrace for several moments. It feels like this night may never end.

Exhaustion hits him all at once, and he yawns. Driving around all day with Nico, then working himself up worrying over Peter… it begins to catch up to him.

“Gosh, what time is it?” Peter says.

“Probably three in the morning or something. It’s late.”

“You shouldn't be awake. Go home and get some rest.”

“What about you?” Harry doesn't mention the fact that he has spent many nights awake for longer, often not sleeping a wink, having charity dinners or partying with strangers. It is irrelevant. “I don't wanna leave you here all alone. I mean, look at this place.”

Endless beeping, blank walls, and perpetually cold. Harry can see the goosebumps on his arms, the almost imperceptible way he is trembling, and the literal gears turning in his head as he ponders Harry’s words, shown so clearly on his face.

He makes a decision then.

“I’ll stay with you.”

Peter freezes, eyes wide. Then he bows his head and sighs. “You don't have to do that, Harry. I’ll be fine by myself. Luckily, I didn't even know this place existed, so I doubt the Scorpions do. And how much more injured can I get? Though knowing me, I’d probably find a way, huh?” At this, he tries to chuckle, but it comes out more like a wince.

He takes a deep breath, in and out, then tells the truth. “I’m not doing it because of that, Pete. I’m doing it because I want to.”

Peter looks as if he doesn't believe him. Harry’s heart drops, and he scrambles to explain himself: “It was just an idea. I won't stay if you don't want me to—”

“No! I— do want you to stay, actually.”

Their gazes meet. Harry can't explain what he sees there, just that it is something uncertain and nervous. Neither of them move, and Harry comes to the realization that he will have to be the one who makes a move.

“Okay... well, can you lend me a pillow? Seems like you have more than enough, and my lower back is starting to cramp—”

“What? No, don’t— don't sleep there, I mean. We can share the bed.”

Now is Harry’s turn to freeze. He becomes vaguely aware of his mouth hanging open, not unlike a fish out of water. Peter starts fidgeting with his blanket, and Harry knows he must say something soon.

“Oh. Alright. Sounds good.”

“Really?” Peter’s whole demeanor brightens. His lips pull into that smile of his again, and Harry nearly swoons.

“Yeah, of course.”

He stands as Peter scoots to the opposite edge of the bed, leaving an empty space beside him. Harry’s face is burning, but he removes his jacket and loafers, leaving the former neatly folded on the back of the chair. He undoes his bun, letting his braids and their curls fall over his jaw. Lastly, he slides into the space, socked feet tucked below his knees as he curls up on his side. Peter lies on his back, maneuvering his cast so that Harry has enough room.

His eyes have once more become lidded. He practically radiates warmth, breathing slowly, chest rising and falling with each breath. A patch of bare skin peeks through his gown next to his shoulder, muscles blissfully relaxed, almost as pale as the bandages wrapped around them. Harry gulps and stares, mesmerized.

An idea begins to stew in his head. Of the favors that a few engineers at Oscorp owe him and materials he knows how to get his hands on. Of red and blue and black and white, fitted to the frame of the boy in front of him. Of what he deserves, what he has deserved from the very beginning.

It is the least Harry could do.

“Go to sleep already,” Peter orders, eyes still closed, but with a note of fondness in his voice. He is still smiling, Harry observes.

“Okay, okay. You’re the boss,” he laughs, closing his eyes. “Night.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

He doesn't know what the morning will bring. What this means for them, this next step in their relationship that wasn't so much of a step as it was a comfortable, almost effortless leap. He hopes his father won't disapprove, though it would do nothing against his feelings for Peter. He has no idea, and finds himself okay with that, possibly for the first time in his life.

For now, he sleeps.